


Precognition

by blueapplesour



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Coming Untouched, Light BDSM, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Post, Riding Crops, Selfcest, Switch Ferdinand von Aegir, Switch Hubert von Vestra, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28869525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueapplesour/pseuds/blueapplesour
Summary: Hubert finds that not only does he survive the war, there is quite a lot to look forward to.My take on pre/post PWP.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 14
Kudos: 88





	Precognition

When the magic releases Hubert from her claws, he struggles to get his bearings. He’s backed into a corner, in a room dark save for a low fire. The air is soured with southern tea and sweat, the wallpaper his palms are pressed to the familiar glossy, outdated print of the state rooms in Enbarr. His shoulders loosen a fraction, then tighten again as the crackle of the fire is drowned by a needy moan. 

Shit and fuck. His face heats as tries to find the strength to warp again, but this spell, which had clearly gone wrong, has drained all his reserves. 

A canopy provides shadow cover, and hopefully the pair are too occupied to notice the mage slinking out. But then there is a rustle, one of the figures climbing out of the bed, and Hubert is slack-jaw struck. The man standing there is perfection, like a sanctuary statue just walking around nude...not entirely nude, he is wearing leather riding boots that hug muscular calves and match the crop in his hand. His face is obscured by long copper waves of hair, but Hubert has no doubt it is equally gorgeous, and if this is what the saints were Hubert would be fonder of religion.

“Come here, Hubert. I wish to stand while I fuck you.”

Hubert’s stomach and everything else drop somewhere in the vicinity of his cock. He has to be mishearing. 

But the statue’s companion shifts as well, coming to the end of the bed and pulling his lover down for a kiss. The hands in that crimson mane are blackened, and Hubert’s own gray-stained fingers twitch. This was another crestless dark mage. Another crestless dark mage named _Hubert_.

“Now bend over, prop yourself up on your arms. I would like them shaking.”

There’s something familiar in the high-handed cadence, the clear smile in it, but Hubert can’t think too much about it as he watches this other Hubert comply, his lover using flicks of the crop to spread his pale legs further. There are already lines of red welts down the backside of his thighs, and Hubert chokes back a jealous groan.

He needs to leave. This is a private moment. The redhead draws the crop down the bent mage’s spine with a teasing hum.

“Ferdinand, if you do not _get on with it_...” the other Hubert’s growled threat is lost in a sharp thwack of the crop and resulting needy gasp. 

Whatever Ferdinand (Ferdinand?!?) says in response is drowned the roar of blood in Hubert’s ears. Ferdinand von Aegir and...him, some version of him, anyway. Ferdinand von Aegir, now fingering his ass as his thighs tremble. Ferdinand von Aegir, completely nude except for his riding boots, which means he must have stripped down, and put the riding boots _back on_ , which is utterly ridiculous and provides something to think about that is not the way Ferdinand is about to fill his other self with his cock.

And then suddenly a blast of Miasma nearly hits him, only mage instinct instructing him to absorb the blast, which he does, as easily as canceling one of his own spells. 

It is one of his own spells.

“Oh my.” Ferdinand’s hand is covering his mouth, but he hasn’t bothered to cover the rest of himself, and Hubert is standing in front of him, dark magic still dancing on his inky fingertips. “Hubert, that is...”

“That is me,” the other Hubert agrees, and Hubert’s mind spins. He looks...not old, not his father’s age, but certainly older, lines around his eyes, and this Ferdinand is taller, far thicker, than the brat he last saw shoveling out manure and informing Hubert that if he couldn’t respect the horses he could leave. 

Hubert hadn’t disrespected the horses, merely commented that the only reason they liked Ferdinand was because they couldn’t understand his babbling, but he had been more than happy to leave. 

“The old you.” There’s something odd and fond in Ferdinand’s tone, and he puts a hand on his Hubert’s shoulder.

“Indeed.” the older Hubert turns his head to lightly kiss Ferdinand’s fingers. “It’s quite curious- as he’s here, I find my memories are getting...rewritten. It’s a bit of a headache.” 

“Hmm.” Ferdinand beckons Hubert closer, bait he refuses to take. “You don’t have to be afraid. After all, it’s just me and you and you, I suppose.”

“Have you forgotten that I used to loathe you?” There is a smirk on the older Hubert’s face. “You being here is no comfort at all.”

No, it really is not comfortable, particularly in Hubert’s pants. While his older self has had the decency to pull a sheet over himself, Ferdinand is still brazenly naked save his boots, the freckled and scarred skin over his soldier’s build aglow in the firelight. Now Hubert can see the violet bruises kissed into his neck and chest, a hint of scratches at his waist. 

This him...has sex...with that, apparently on a regular basis if the familiarity between them is to be believed. He tries to swallow, but even his saliva seems stuck. He should say something, explain that this is the result of a spell gone wrong and also possibly he’s dead. But his older self is looking at him with a knowing glint in his eye. The bastard has all his thoughts and memories. 

Ferdinand meets his eyes, not suppressing his amusement. “Well, as you can tell, we get along quite well now.” 

“I can see that,” Hubert manages, and he’s proud of himself that it comes out even and even vaguely disdainful. It’s a false pride seeing as how his uniform pants are tented and he’s pretty sure his older self just snickered.

“Perhaps you’d like to see a few more things?” the older Hubert pulls Ferdinand into his lap, whispering something in his ear that lights his handsome face into something angelic. He laughs, shakes his head, murmurers something fond in return, and the intimacy of it causes something in him to curl and shake. 

It should be a relief, seeing this proof that they came through the war. But Hubert has never imagined aging, seeing himself with squint lines and what looked to be a few threads of stress-induced gray already creeping through his black hair. He never imagined being happy. He would most likely die in service to his lady, felled by an enemy in her defense or consumed by his own magic, and that was the whole of it. There was no “after.” 

Especially not an “after” that looked like this, with the golden Ferdinand von Aegir in his lap, looking at him like his stained and scarred self was a saint reborn.

It must be a trap. He glances at the door, makes ready to run.

“You won’t be able to leave,” his other self assures him. “I only designed the door sealing ward last year, I couldn’t have even approached it in my school days. Ferdinand and I like our privacy, and seeing as how you were the one who invaded it, I suppose you’ll just have to accept what you’ve been given.” He is well aware of how to drop silky, subtle threats; just because he is the one doing it doesn’t mean he doesn’t shiver.

“Regardless of what my darling says,” Ferdinand assures him, “he can send you back in an instant. If you would like.” His smile widens, like a fox coming across ungaurded hens. “but you are welcome to stay a while.”  
“Aren’t you worried this is some trick?” Hubert asks. “I could be a face-stealer. Don’t tell me I become less paranoid with age.” That seemed like a great way to stop getting older. He focuses on that, not on the way Ferdinand is being positioned to take his...no, not his, his is still covered and begging and leaking wet through to his woolen trousers...to take the other Hubert’s cock. Even in the middle of being fucked, or fucking, however it is they’re doing it, someone showing up in the bedroom should get a dagger in the throat sans question. Forgiveness over permission and all that.

“You forget that I _am_ you; as you are here, my memories are being overwritten to match. I trust you as much as I can trust myself.” The older Hubert moves to sweep Ferdinand’s hair away from his neck and nip at the skin, and Ferdinand shudders. Ferdinand locks eyes with Hubert, running his tongue along his lower lip, panting as his lover presses into him. The cavalier clearly relishes the captive audience, the growing flush on Hubert’s skin, working himself up and down and angling to give Hubert a view. His older self is teasing the pink nipples now hard on that freckled chest, panting against Ferdinand’s back. “Consider this further motivation to continue to do your job.”

Hubert’s hackles are immediately up at the idea of requiring any further motivation than Lady Edelgard’s success, but as Ferdinand croons his name and begins to stroke his own cock, thoughts of anything outside this room grow distant and unfocused.

A man who has never even been kissed and is now watching himself fuck the most exquisitely built human he could ever conceive of, regardless of who that person is, can only take so much. He palms himself over the front of his trousers, taking the outline of his shaft between his fingers, biting back any sound. Ferdinand’s gaze has hooked him, as present as fingers over his skin, and his brain is settling into a fuzzy space that must accept what is happening, or it will break. Perhaps it is a dream. He’s past the age of soiling himself in the night in perverse fits of hormonal fever, but there are still occasions where unbidden images come to leave him hard and aching. 

If it is a dream, it is not so bad to touch himself. Perhaps not so bad to touch them. 

Ferdinand offers a hand. “Why don’t you come a little closer?” The words are punctuated by soft pants, and a bead of sweat trickles down his flushed neck. 

“He wants to,” his older self says, his hand coming to join Ferdinand’s to stroke, making the cavalier gasp and thrash. “But I was always terrible at taking what I wanted. I’m not sure I actually wanted anything until you.”

Hubert’s lip curls. Apparently at some point in the future he becomes a sentimental douche for Ferdinand von Aegir, his pride another casualty of war.

“Come here, Hubert,” Ferdinand tries again, and it’s the order that does it, that noble tone and the image of his thighs covered in crop marks. “And take a breath, a deep one, you are going to pass out.”

He listens, but only feels more lightheaded at the sudden rush of oxygen and stumbles against Ferdinand, thus knocking him back into his other self and getting an annoyed grunt in response. Ferdinand reaches up to touch his face, brushing his long bangs away from his covered eye. His first response is to flinch, and he catches a momentary sadness pass Ferdinand’s face.

“You should be pleased to see you eventually fix your hair,” he says, and Hubert wants to snip back at him, but the warm fingers on his skin might as well be in his mouth, the gentleness there hooking somewhere deep. He can’t remember the last time someone laid a hand on him that wasn’t in anger, or a threat to his life.

He’s still not entirely sure this isn’t a threat to his life, just in a form he never conceived of.

“Hubert, shall we move back further on the bed?” 

His older self complains, but acquiesces to the gentle command, withdrawing and scooting backwards onto the soft sheets. Ferdinand takes his hand to lead him around, then pushes him down between them. The redhead is stroking his hair, a thoughtful look on his face. Whoever this Ferdinand is, it isn’t the boy waiting at the monastery. He can see shades of him in the shape, but the statue has been cut from its rough marble, polished into something beautiful by hours of violent chipping and blows. He can, if he squints, see how he could love this future Ferdinand. 

He still does not understand how this future Ferdinand could love him.

“What would you like to do to him?” the older Hubert asks, propped up on an elbow. He still wears a knife-edge-thin smirk, and while Hubert has always been privately amused at how others find his face unnerving, seeing it from the outside makes his stomach roll. 

But Ferdinand, pure, noble Ferdinand, looks no less devilish. Hubert throbs between them.

“I would very much like to pay him back for what a shit he was to me when we were in school.” The riding crop is back in his hand, and he presses it under Hubert’s chin, tilting his head and baring his neck. Every inch of Hubert’s skin fires with sensation; the air, the stretch of the fabric over his cock, the leather kissing his skin. “If he agrees he deserves such punishment, and no Hubert, you do not get to agree for him.”

His other self chuckles. “If he does not agree, I will happily take his share. But he very much deserves it.” 

“Well, Hubert?” The crop is removed, and replaced by Ferdinand’s hand. He can no longer think, enervated by lust and a marrow-deep need to belong to, to be ruined by, Ferdinand. If this feeling could be bottled in a potion, carved into a sigil, they would have no trouble winning the war. He nods. 

“Brilliant. If you would like this to stop at any point, please say “cinnamon,” but you are not to speak otherwise. Can you do that for me, Hubert?” Another nod, and Ferdinand leans forward and kisses him, a soft, delicate brush of mouths that is nothing at all like the punishment he expected. Or perhaps it is a punishment after all, barely any contact, refusing to give him what he needs even as he opens his mouth under Ferdinand’s in wordless begging. “Darling, strip him. Hubert, lie still. You are not to move until I tell you to.”

There are no ropes on him (though his mind keeps flicking through images of what if there _were_ , bound and gagged and blindfolded to be used for nothing more than Ferdinand’s pleasure), but he maintains a rigid posture as his older self divests him of shoes and gloves, overclothes and smalls. 

“Look at you, leaking on yourself,” the other Hubert says, shaking out the soiled undergarments, and the sting of humiliation sets right between his legs. Ferdinand taps his arm with the crop, moves it to tease his painfully taut nipples. “Hands above your head and spread your legs.” 

He moves, but not fast enough, and the crop lands a blow on the side of his ribs, a bright smack of pain that draws a shudder. He is intimately familiar with pain; magic and scars and burning poisons, childhood slaps and testing blades. The craving for it in this context should be no surprise. His cock is curved up against his stomach, dripping, his thighs trembling. He pathetically, desperately already needs to come. 

“Do you remember when you called my words a river of filth?” Ferdinand asks, trailing the crop across the planes of his overstimulated skin, and Hubert nods. “Oh how I longed to shut you up.” He strokes Hubert’s face gently, shoves two long fingers into his mouth, pressing his tongue until he gags. “Did you know I thought about it sometimes, pushing you down, forcing myself down your throat? It was quite ignoble, but I always came so hard.” 

Hubert whimpers around the saliva-coated digits. Behind Ferdinand he can see his older self stroking himself, slowly, one arm braced against he bedpost as he watches Ferdinand kneel over Hubert’s face. Ferdinand’s cock presses against his lips- the angle makes it difficult to penetrate deeply, but he sticks out his tongue, offering a plush pillow to that cock, tasting the salt and sweat and musky flavor dripping into the back of his drooling mouth. Ferdinand is careful as he fucks his face, more careful than Hubert would like, as he stretches his jaw and tries to take more of him.

“Such a good boy, so sweet around my cock” Ferdinand praises, and void take him, he reacts to that, too, heat coiling tight and low in his stomach, balls aching with the need for release. His eyes are starting to sting with unshed tears at the overwhelming sensations. 

“Please,” he gasps around his mouthful, and Ferdinand immediately withdraws. Behind him he hears his other self chuckle. 

“You were not to speak,” Ferdinand reminds him, and while he did agree, this is unfair, he needs to come and soon. “If you would like this to stop, you know what to do. If you are happy to continue, get on your knees and place your hands against the wall.” 

He wouldn’t say he’s happy, but Hubert puts his palms flat to that tacky wallpaper, arms shaking, one of those stupid stinging tears trickling down his cheek; he’s only grateful Ferdinand is behind him. 

The first strike of leather against the back of his thighs makes him jump; by the fourth his forehead has joined his hands and he’s crying. If he can spread his legs far enough, he can just rut himself on the tangled bedsheets, feathery light sensation that is not enough and yet...

A fifth sting comes, and he is undone. He shakes as he spurts onto the pillows and bedding, relieved and humiliated in equal measure. Ferdinand clucks his tongue and places soft hands on him, trying to turn him back, but Hubert clenches his hands into fists against the wall, unmollified. In this sudden clarity he is overtaken with disgust for letting himself be so used, so unguarded. 

“Hubert.” Ferdinand’s voice is gentle, and there is the small clatter of the crop being dropped to the ground. “Come, turn around, you can speak as you wish.”

He does not wish to speak. He wishes to bury his face in the soiled pillow until death comes or his future self takes pity on him and sends him back. 

His arms buckle, and Ferdinand catches him, pulling him down into an embrace of sweaty skin on skin. “Well I suppose that may have been a little overwhelming, there is no shame in it. You cried the first time we had sex, too.”

Sothis almighty, just let him die. But Ferdinand’s touch is a balm; he knows exactly where is soothing, what touch will calm a destructive mind. 

“You don’t need to coddle him,” the older Hubert offers, tapping a finger against the red welt of a crop mark, making Hubert flinch.

“That is not your decision, and you forget he is not yet you.” Ferdinand’s words and fingers drip with honeyed affection, and that is the most surreal part of it all- in this strange future, he is not only teased and fucked and pleasured...he is cherished. His throat closes again as he tilts his head upwards, hoping Ferdinand will understand- and he does, of course he does, kissing Hubert with deep-throated reverence. His other self slips beside him and he is crushed between, floating in a pool of bliss, no longer sure whose limbs are whose as they trade kisses, caresses, fingers and tongues. 

“Ah, youth,” Ferdinand sighs, a finger stroking the underside of Hubert’s rapidly reviving cock. “It seems he has not been fully used yet.”

Just the suggestion of it has him twitching against Ferdinand’s palm. 

“Indeed.” The older man moves his hand down to his younger self’s shaft, bringing another groaning shudder; it is one thing to have someone touch you, another thing to touch yourself, and an entirely different kind of delight to be perfectly handled by someone who has lived in your skin. He might be the only person in the entire world who gets to experience this, thanks to his magic, and it’s an odd sort of pride that cuts through the wanton shame. “Are you going to fuck him?” 

_Say yes, say yes, please say yes._ He wants to be fucked, and he wants to prove that that little performance is not all he is capable of.

“Mmm, I am so attached to our first time, though. Why don’t you do it? You would only be touching yourself, it barely even counts.” The smile in his voice says he knows he’s teasing. “I shall direct, and continue using his mouth so my own is free.”

“Of course.” The pair share a kiss, more tenderness than passion, and Ferdinand does not even have to ask for Hubert’s consent; he’s already on all fours, waiting. Ferdinand pats his head in a approval. “Such a quick study, such a wonderful lapdog.” Hubert’s face heats further, but he only spreads his legs and opens his mouth to welcome Ferdinand again. This way he can fill his mouth with him, relish him, as a slick finger prods at his entrance. He clenches down unwittingly.

“Use your tongue first, darling,” Ferdinand orders, and before Hubert can protest there is a gentle warmth against his hole, licking and prodding, and his whole body nearly goes limp with pleasure. Ferdinand taps his cheek, then moves his hair out of his face again. “You are still working you know, come now.” 

He renews his attention to Ferdinand’s cock, puffing his cheeks and sucking as best he can as the tongue is replaced by fingers, stretching him, then angling to hit a place inside that makes him jolt. More wet is smeared on his hole, and the fingers are replaced by something larger, thicker, familiar and yet not. He moans and shoves his hips back for more, his face nearly buried in the dark ginger curls at Ferdinand’s base as the redhead sucks in a breath. 

“Greedy,” he hears himself chuckle as his older self begins to move, and Ferdinand tightens a hand in his hair and begins to fuck his face in earnest. When Hubert raises his eyes he can see Ferdinand staring at his lover with a drunken adoration, eyes dark and wide and almost jealous as the older man snaps his hips and wrenches another shudder from his younger self. 

“I..” Ferdinand’s hips stutter and Hubert readies himself as the cavalier comes, moaning his name and stroking his hair, adoring to the last even as Hubert coughs around the salty spend. Ferdinand collapses back on the bed, and Hubert finds himself pushed to the mattress, his older self merciless as he drives into him, using a hand on his cock to force him to take deeper thrusts. Each thrust and stroke brings a new shudder of pleasure, pushing him closer to falling off that delirious cliff again, he can no longer control it or control anything, and this is just what he has always wanted and _of course_ the other Hubert knows it, and he finally spills again with such relief it leaves him drained and dizzy. A few more thrusts and his older self finishes as well, fingernails scratching down Hubert’s back as he comes with a quiet grunt.

Hubert falls against the bed, boneless. It’s hard to breathe with his face in the sex-drenched sheets, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

“I would like to keep him,” Ferdinand says, and Hubert nods though he isn’t sure they can see it; there is something he has to do he’s pretty sure, something about a war, but for the moment the entire world outside could be burning and he’s not sure he’d care enough to piss on it and put it out. The von Vestra house was bred to service, why not do it like this?  
“You know that’s not possible,” his future self chides, and Ferdinand’s petulant sigh is the same as it always has been. The familiarity of it breaks past the haze. This isn’t where he belongs. There is still a life to lead, a path to tread before he ends up...in whatever this is. 

_In love._

But his future self is a step ahead of him, rolling him over and staring down with narrowpale green eyes. “You understand we can’t let you remember any of this? Any knowledge of the future could compromise our success.”

It is good to see that his future self hasn’t been turned into an entire idiot due to his regular injection of Ferdinand von Aegir, but it hits his gut. “I will not say anything...”

“I will ensure that you don’t. I have no sentimentality about you being me; that only makes it doubly important we be cautious.” He places Hubert’s folded clothes in his lap, then offers what may be a smile, thin and strangely soft. “I promise, if you stay the course, the rewards...are unimaginable.” 

Before Hubert can answer, his older self’s blackened fingers are drawing a sigil on his forehead, and the world goes gray.

He awakens in his bed, naked, head pounding. Surely he wasn’t drinking? The last thing he remembers, he was at his desk, researching long-range warp...he rolls and winces. 

_What in all of Fodlan?_

His clothes are next to him, folded with the precision he reserves for Edelgard’s garments. There are bruises on his legs, and his back stings with thin lines of scratches. 

He has no energy left to investigate, and oddly, feels too satisfied to try. Instead he falls asleep, and dreams of something warm.


End file.
